


The price of meat

by Baryshnikov



Series: The sweet cannibalisation of morality [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Auror Harry Potter, But like classy cannibalism, Cannibalism, Corruption, Dinner, Eating, Hand Feeding, Heavily influenced by Hannibal, Justice, M/M, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, Moral Decay, Morality, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, mild politics, pseudo-philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Dinner was a time for good discussion, mutual appreciation, and the reexamination of one's own moral propriety.Otherwise known as, Harry is invited to dinner and has mixed feelings about what is on the menu.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: The sweet cannibalisation of morality [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688317
Comments: 20
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even explain, let alone justify this.
> 
> Heads up, this is heavily influenced by Hannibal.

Of all the places that Harry could currently be, this wouldn’t have been his first choice: a gathering in an expensive, and absurdly private house, with the most elite and influential men and women currently navigating the nebulous corridors of wizarding politics. To be perfectly honest, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he was even doing here. It wasn’t as though he’d dedicated his entire existence to playing that political game as the others had, instead, his niche was… more altruistic. Justice was, after all, a far less corruptible entity than the murky haze of politics.

But even so, justice was not as black and white as it had used to be, and with every shade of grey that slid into it, his life became a fraction more complicated, and his potential influence increased twofold, which was probably the reason why he was here. All because Harry himself had unintentionally, and only really on a technicality, become one of the elites; one of those special people with money to their name and influence in their fingertips. For him, the invitation was likely extended due to his name, but his rapid ascension through the Aurors probably cemented it; he was, after all, the _natural_ successor to the leadership. 

Sometimes it felt like he was the only one who cared for justice these days. 

Nevertheless, despite these connections, Harry was rarely invited to these gatherings—he deigned to call them parties because that implied, they would be enjoyable, and they weren’t—mostly because his politics differed so irreconcilably with the other people who crowded these rooms. The rich and influential had never been to Harry’s taste, but when they were all so pathetically sycophantic, then they were utterly unbearable because even the most blatant and unpleasable critic became a champion fawner in _his_ presence. 

_Tom Riddle_. The man who now sat opposite him looking just as delectable as the food, in a dark, molten-coloured suit, and a brilliant smile. Harry had been watching him with infinite suspicion as he spun his way into power. It had taken him a while, but now that he was there—at the top of the ridge, as it were—Riddle was enjoying every second of it; that much was obvious to even those who were completely untrained in the intricacies of espionage. Also enjoying it were those ‘friends’ of his who’d invested so much in him, Harry didn’t care to know all of them, or, even maintain a standard of politeness beyond mere courtesy. But that didn’t make them disappear. 

A selection of Riddle’s favourites was here tonight, milling around the rooms and chattering, though the only three Harry could identify with any certainty were Lestrange, Malfoy and Rosier who were always the ones closest to the Riddle. They were the ones with too much money and a sense of superiority because of it; always the first to smile at Riddle and the last to leave. But although they were caught in Riddle’s orbit, and being sucked closer to the centre every day, they were each influential in their own right. They didn’t _need_ him, not like he needed them.

But still, each of their influences extended as far as the parameters of the law, and not an inch further, Harry singlehandedly made sure of that. 

Depressingly, though, the parameters of the law had no jurisdiction on the declining of dinner invitations; hence Harry was here, sitting in the dining room that was swathed in crimson shadows. The lights that hung above them casting out a soft gold glow that slid off the walls and coated everything it touched in a sangria shade. More than once, Harry had looked down at his hand, turning it over, and examining it from back to palm; the light followed every movement as though it were a sentient creature, and as a result, his hands looked like they were smeared with blood. 

It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant room, but it was a powerful one. The high windows with the velvet curtains drawn, and the creaking floorboards, and all that dark furniture carefully spaced out in the centre of the room, leant itself to an old-fashioned feel, back when single politicians and their interests monopolised the political landscape. It was an era Harry suspected Riddle was aiming to return to, for his own benefit, of course. 

Not that that observation helped to answer the current question of why Riddle would even want him here in the first place, after all, they had barely exchanged any words beyond mere pleasantries, and Harry would not have considered them even colleagues, given they disagreed on how exactly jurisdiction of concepts such as justice should be properly distributed. But, having said that, Harry, however much he disliked the rest of them, would never pass up an opportunity to see Riddle—to observe him—especially in his _natural_ habitat, away from all the cameras, and the people, and the dissenters. 

Though the curiosity Harry felt did nothing to soothe the tugging in his stomach, because Riddle bringing the rich and influential together, felt less like a coming together of supposedly like-minded individuals, and more like the final noose being tightened around his neck. Quite possibly this the ringing of the death-knell. Indeed, Harry could feel _something_ in the air; something choking and apprehensive was ingrained into the oxygen, and it hung between the layers of the paint and was stitched through every inch of the carpets. 

There was something sinister in these walls and it all linked back to Riddle, who sat like a smiling spider at the centre of it all. 

Fortunately, their party was currently consisting of just ten, which was a large enough gathering to avoid those that one might dislike, whilst, unfortunately, being a fraction too small to blend into the crowd entirely, until one’s existence had been blurred out of all memories. At least though, Harry could avoid Riddle, and as were seated, he was probably as far away from Riddle as he could physically be. For they were sitting at a long table; four people down the left, and four down the right, Riddle at the head and Harry at the tail, as it were, creating a decent distance between them. Far enough away to watch without being easily noticed, though Riddle still managed to catch his gaze. 

Those black eyes watched him for long enough for it to become uncomfortable, and Harry shifted his seat, moving the legs forward a couple of inches and repositioning himself. He still didn’t want to be here. After all, Riddle’s intentions were rarely honourable, and this entire set-up felt distinctly sinister, as though everyone was part of the secret except him. They all probably thought he didn’t see the subtle glances between them, and the smiles that were just a tad too friendly; they probably thought he didn’t notice the way they all deferred to Riddle on matters of importance and waited for his approval on each decision. 

But Harry _did_ see. 

He saw everything they did; how all of them were nothing but puppets strung up with Riddle’s will, played for fools and thrown away when they were bled dry. Harry had met several ‘stepping-stones,’ those people that were abandoned as soon as their usefulness ran out, and none of them had pleasant endings. But still, people flocked to Riddle like he was an ancient prophet or an angel, and it made Harry think that people with that much charisma shouldn’t be allowed to have power as well; it made them dangerous, and Harry’s life was already preoccupied with keeping track of dangerous men. 

Needless to say, really, Riddle was at the top of his unofficial wanted list—unofficial because if anyone found out that the Minister for Magic was his most suspect man in England, there would be a lot of uncomfortable questions to be answered, especially given that Harry had almost no evidence that could stand up in a trial or even an inquest. All because Riddle wasn’t a fool; he hadn’t let himself be caught yet and Harry doubted he would start now.

And, unless he made a mistake, Riddle _wouldn’t_ be caught, not when he slunk through the shadows like the most subtle of snakes. Interchanging money, and secrets, and lives like they were children’s trading cards, and that was just his politics; Harry preferred not to think of the things that he’d witnessed, and the rest that he’d pieced together over the last few years. The image was still half-finished, and there were strategic gaps, some of which Harry doubted he’d ever fill, and would surely become an obsession if he let them. 

But he knew _enough_.

Enough that looking across the table’s spread made him sick. 

It wasn’t necessarily the arrangements of dishes themselves, for they all looked delectable; bowls and platters and other dishes all in the same charcoal colour of the plates, and all containing some, artful but still… violent composition of the food. Perhaps, Harry was being paranoid but there just appeared to be something so _brutal_ in the arrangements of glazed vegetables, whose veneers glowed red, and in the sharp, precise lines of the rice, shaped in curious formations. Even the salads that looked so outwardly fresh, and were coloured with deep, healthy greens and purples, appeared to make unnatural shadows and twisted in deformed ways. 

Even so, each dish was intimately constructed and devastatingly beautiful as a result. Although he was no connoisseur, Harry had sat through enough of these formal dinners by now to know that food could either be beautiful on individual plates or as a centrepiece, and it all depended on the image that the host wished to delivery. Individual plates emphasised a personal, and indeed rather intimate touch to food preparation, as each person were treated as though they were the only one to ever eat the dish. In contrast, meals, such as this one, that was beautiful on the table, were a demonstration—a show even—of capability by the chef, and good taste in the host. 

So too, could such arrangements show other things. Maybe, Harry was reading too much into the careful arrangement of plants, from the small, black, flowers that were artfully speckled across the plates. Every petal laid for its contrast: black flowers against red meat, or rich purple against crisp gold, and deep red flowers in full bloom placed throughout the salad. And each contrast was more severe than the last, harsher, callous even, and Harry couldn’t help but feel faintly _unnerved_ by the perfection of it all. 

The feeling wasn’t helped by the fact he didn’t really recognise any of the dishes, or _anything_ on the table really. Even the sauces were uncommon at best, and each in dubious colours; one murky and green that smelled garden-fresh with an undertone of—maybe—mint, that was left behind from the starter, another, that had been brought out especially, was dark and red, glistening like wine and just as aromatic, but in a much headier way that made Harry’s mouth water despite himself. Some of the guests had already poured that one, and it ran over their plates and onto their food, sliding into the contours of the meat until everything was bathed in bloody red. The final sauce that sat some distance from Harry was almost black and ran as thick as tar, Harry did not know the ingredients, and he didn’t want to, for it was like looking at a void. 

Instead, he took a sip of his water; revelling in the cool, clarity of it, though it too was coated with a red sheen. 

Of course, as much as Harry tried to ignore the fact, there was also a centrepiece to this meal, one he had neglected to look at yet. The meat, placed on a raised structure right in the middle of the table as though it were on a pedestal, was the showpiece of this meal. Even from this distance, it was obvious that the meat was rare, almost uncomfortably so, and cut thick. The colour of it was red at the centre and oozing, and the crust, though brown, was inlaid with flecks of edible gold; such presentation was so close to the line of ostentatious, but despite his disgust, Harry could never bring himself to condemn something so beautiful. 

Once again the brutal contrast between the dark, sticky, rind and the rareness of the meat, all combined with the deep blush and garnet tones of the blood oranges it had been cooked with, was as beautiful as it was brutal, and it left his insides swirling and tugging until he shifted a little in his chair and tore his eyes away from what could have been the sight of a bloody battleground.

After all, that meat was anything but beautiful; despite its apparent appetising appearance, there was something _monstrous_ marbled through the flesh, and _that_ was its origin. Human. Human meat. That thing, dusted in gold and lying in the middle of the table, was all that was left of a human being and it was _sickening_ to think about for longer than a few moments. The very thought of _consuming_ another human being sat wrong in Harry’s stomach, and in the every fibre of his being, just as it should because he was a morally decent person.

Riddle was not. 

Of course, Harry couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure that Riddle would be audacious enough to serve his guests something so morally reprehensible, but nor could he be sure that each of those sitting around this table was not entirely aware of what they were eating; perhaps even _who_. It was completely, and horrifically, conceivable that they were not just passively aware, but actively involved in the consumption of other people. 

He couldn’t prove it though. Riddle would undoubtedly catch him if he were to take a sample without permission, and everything else was so meticulously constructed that there was no evidence at all; just a heaviness pooling in the base of his stomach, and scratchy dryness settling like sawdust in his throat. And so, Harry was forced to sit here, whilst the last true indecency sat less than three feet away, and the man who thought himself a god for having such control over the lives of men and women, sat there smiling, framed by black and believing he was untouchable.

To make matters worse, as Harry watched someone carve the meat, slowly and carefully, giving the moment far too much unintentional weight, he felt Riddle’s eyes lingering on him more and more. At first, it was no more than a gentle pressure, but it grew until Harry had to look up, and he was greeted with a contemplative gaze that was heavy and heated in ways he couldn’t quite describe, but nonetheless made his stomach curl itself up like a fern in the rain. Without any intention on his part, Harry's stomach twisted and spiralled back in on itself, flipping itself over like a leaf caught in the wind, until he felt airy and light, despite the fact Riddle’s eyes should have made him, heady, and physically sick. In fact, every part of that man should repulse him, and it did, in a moral way, but at the same time, Harry wasn’t stupid, and nor was he blind. 

Riddle was an undeniably attractive man. But it wasn’t the light, crisp type of attractiveness that one would associate with a pale dawn, rather, Riddle’s brand handsome was slinking and serpentine and insidious, like a snaking sliding through the grass, or rich contaminated soil that poisoned everything that grew in it. It was infused into his character and his every action, not to mention his face was works of classical architecture, made up with fine lines and perfect arches. Simply put, he was so beautiful on the outside, but so corrupted on the inside as though a rot had got to his core, and it was a hypnotic combination; one that filled Harry with equal parts attraction and revulsion.

After all, how could one trust a man who was always surrounded by a contagious fog of corruption; this indeterminable sensation that coiled itself around Harry’s fingers and burned the back of his throat. Sometimes, Harry wondered if the other members of their current congregation saw what he was, and merely pretended not to, or whether they were so blinded by Riddle’s aura that they didn’t care—though calling it an aura would imply that it was unintentional on Riddle’s part. 

But nothing that Riddle did was unintentional. 

Even now, as he merely sat there, carefully eating what was on his plate—each mouthful was raised to his lips with the utmost care, and each chew was ever so deliberate, and the way he swallowed was utterly unbearable. Every single action was purposeful and calculated to achieve an exact reaction, as though Riddle lived his life as a continuous theatrical production, where every facial expression and every movement was so carefully curated to tell _his_ version of a story. 

Harry picked at his food, pushing the meat to the side and forming a defensive barrier with the thinly sliced carrots that were glazed in sweet honey and glinted, almost unnaturally, in the light. There was simply something too artificially beautiful about them, as though they were coated in a plastic gloss; set to be preserved until the end of time. He wasn’t planning on eating them. To be perfectly honest, Harry was not intending to eat more than a few mouthfuls, and those would be from dishes that were exclusively vegetarian—after all, he didn’t come here to lose his morality—he came here to watch the man who surely would, in another life, have been his greatest nemesis. 

As Harry was half-watching Riddle, whilst stabbing baby potatoes and examining them thoroughly before putting them in his mouth, the rest of the discussion turned to morality and propriety and other notions that these people fundamentally _failed_ to understand. For distracted by influence and the money that would buy it, for with each new ounce of wealth there became a greater distance between them and those they deemed beneath them. Money was the divider and the uniter of all humankind, but these people used it as an excuse to separate themselves off and consider themselves to be above the problems of the poor. 

It was a distasteful position, but alas a popular one amongst the wealthier elite, who these days preferred to abscond from their civic duties and live more individualistic lives. 

So, they talked, uninterrupted, in their pseudo-intellectualism and Harry sat at the end of the table prodding at the same potato and avoiding being involved. For it wasn’t that they were necessarily stupid, though intelligence was nonetheless a scarce resource, rather it was that their opinions were obnoxious, and their methodology was flawed. Too often they made assumptions that were based in such inherent privileges one would think they’d been raised in a diamond box with their every need catered to. 

That was Riddle’s only redeeming feature, if he was even redeemable, that he understood people. Perhaps it was obvious to say that, but he could get under their skin in such a way that Harry had never quite seen before, and would happily watch the process forever if he could. For now, though, Harry continued to prod at the potato, rolling it around over his dry plate; the rest of them didn’t pay him attention and continued to talk amongst themselves—well— _almost_ all of them. 

Riddle was watching him again. Harry could feel his gaze digging into his neck and his hands, and any other exposed skin with such a weight that it felt like a sizable animal biting at his skin. Undoubtedly, Riddle was taking note of the fact he’d barely eaten anything since they’d all sat down, and had instead, spent a majority of his time sipping his water and pushing things around his plate.

But before Harry could linger on the potential implications of Riddle realising that he knew, their silent stares were interrupted by what sounded like Lestrange. “Tell me,” he said, addressing the room with a tone that was too casual and too effortless for someone who had human meat on their plate. “When does a man become a monster?” he said, all dramatic and evocative, demanding both intellectual and low brow answers. 

“You’re asking the wrong question,” muttered Harry before he could stop himself. There was a silence, and Harry ducked his head and stabbed at an unassuming piece of beetroot, before eating it slowly, and pretending he couldn’t feel their eyes on him. After all, although he said it out loud, he hadn’t intended to be heard, and least of all had he intended to be heard by their host himself, especially given how far away he was. 

But, regardless of his perceived privacy, Riddle was the one to speak next. “What did you say, Harry?” he said, carefully; his tone soft and as sweet as the orange perfume that filled the air. His fork momentarily pausing, so that the heavy metal of it was suspended half-way to his mouth, as looked over the food and directly at Harry; his pupils hanging still and firm, and horrible intense, against Harry’s own.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Harry said again, louder this time, and it caught like a fish to a hook. Around him the conversations dissipated; wilting to the sound of his voice, and leaving a long, open corridor of space between Riddle and himself. 

Riddle quirked a brow: “How so?”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Harry said for a third time, “because you should be asking, when does a monster become a man.” As he spoke the final part of that sentence the words got caught in his mouth, their weight heavy with implications on his tongue.

The rest of the guests each looked at one another, exchanging glances that were equal parts raised eyebrows and low murmurs, all signifying that this was quite the scandalous interruption. After all, people didn’t interrupt Riddle. To be honest, the rules of etiquette went against interruptions of all sorts, but especially when the interrupter had barely spoken all evening—there was scarcely anyone worth speaking to—but now addressed their host with the ease of a man with too much courage and not enough cowardice. 

“So, _Riddle_ ,” Harry said, speaking to him directly now, although he had been the implied inoculator since the beginning, “when _does_ a monster become a man?”

Although the words were firm in their foundations and the tone of delivery was confident, Harry couldn’t shake the thudding of his heart and how it was mimicking in his pulse. He half-expected Riddle to simply ignore him and continue his quiet, and clearly private, conversations with Malfoy or Lestrange, but instead, and rather surprisingly, Riddle raised his eyes to meet Harry’s own again, and smiled. It was that same smile he always wore, the one that was so warm on the surface and so cold underneath, like a spark of lightning crackling the sky it was hot and electric, but instilled with a good quantity of danger as well. 

Riddle continued that smile even as he dipped his gaze back to his plate and persisted in cutting his portion of meat into a thin strip that he then wrapped around his fork. “When it understands a man,” he said, licking his lips as he raised his fork to his mouth, and chewed, and swallowed indecently. "When it has comprehended civilisation, acquired sophistication, and embraced sensualisation,” he continued, softly and without a pause, as though he had been mulling on the question all evening. “That is when a monster becomes a man.”

The pause in the conversation continued; everyone equally caught on Riddle’s words, and all looking in his direction, framing him with nine pairs of eyes though he were the very window of divine knowledge.  
“Does that answer your question, Harry?” Riddle said, reaching out for his glass of wine—already half-empty. He gripped it between his fingers, light and easy as though the glass itself had a weightlessness about it, and his raised it up with the same deliberate, sensuous, slowness, and drank; and Harry found himself staring uselessly as Riddle’s throat as it contracted every time he swallowed. 

“Not entirely,” he said carefully, cautious to keep himself firmly on the line between gentle, intellectual prodding and outright insulting, for the former tended to go down far better than the latter. “By your explanation,” he continued, “monstrous men would be invisible.”

“Aren’t they?” Riddle said back quickly, apparently content to ignore his other guests for the sake of Harry and Harry alone, even as they watched him with increasing levels of frustration and confusion. “Can you see them, Harry?” he asked, “could you pick one out of a line-up.” The question felt wrong somehow, but Harry still nodded, slowly, and a little more carefully than before, his hand dropping against his thigh to the wand holster that lay there.

“Is there one sitting at this table?” Riddle continued, though his tone was changing from casual and, almost mocking, to something far more challenging. The same expression of feeling was in Riddle's gaze too; that roughness and determination, as though he was daring Harry to call out his personal monstrosities, and even his moral deformities to his face.

“Go on, Harry,” he said, still goading, “tell me who _is_ the monster dressed as a man?”

As he spoke, Harry held Riddle’s gaze, waiting for him to backtrack as he realised the implications of his words. But he never did. Rather, Riddle just continued to smile; his tongue just visible as it scraped over the edges of his teeth. In that moment, no one else seemed to matter, in fact, they seemed to melt away, blurring into the background until it was just him and Riddle, sitting and watching each other, framed by black and separated by nothing more than a dark stretch of table, ominously decorated with flowers that were wilting, and food that was perversely _wrong_.

“You are,” said Harry eventually, swallowing down the urge to point his finger like a priest proclaiming the presence of the devil; even if that was what this was. Not that Riddle reacted in any sort of incriminating way; he just leant back, one hand resting on the tablecloth and the other still holding his glass. Like that he looked so casual, relaxed, almost lazy, except there was a razor quality to his smile and a sharpness in his eyes. 

Something that was feral and flickering like a dying light; momentarily flooding his irises with endless, empty black before the colour crept back in like the first streaks of dawn. “Me?” he said, ducking his head and keeping his tone still light and airy, as though this were nothing more than a conversation about the weather over breakfast. But when Riddle looked back up again, his gaze was decidedly cold, even if his smile stayed in place. “Now, Harry,” he said, soft and sweet but in a way that was deeply unnerving, like milk that had gone sour, “why ever would you think that?” 

Without thinking, Harry stabbed his fork through the meat and raised it to the light. Even under the warm glare, it was pink and wet, the slight rim of fat melted away; just looking at it no one would ever guess what monstrous secret was contained between the thick threads of muscle. Without even looking up, he knew Riddle’s eyes were equally focussed on that monstrous piece meat, not that it stopped him eating. 

The animal tissue spiked on the end of the fork was all the proof he needed of Riddle’s monstrosities, and Harry held it up as though this was a theatre production and he was the lead actor. He still didn’t speak though, he didn’t really need to; not when he was slowly turning his fork, letting the light illuminate every curve, and every hollow, and every thick thread of matter that made up such an atrocious mouthful. 

It was a play performed for just one man though, for the rest of their party had turned their gaze to the walls, or the table, or even their own plates, and their hands worked mechanically. The clinking of the metal cutlery against the porcelain of the plates was the only sound filling the room, and it was grating on Harry’s ears.

“So, Harry?” Riddle said, “you are yet to enlighten me of my monstrosities.” 

Harry swallowed; there was a deliberateness in Riddle’s word choice there; not _us_ but _me_ ; as though Riddle didn’t care if the others were bored, or uninterested, or even involved in the conversation, all that mattered was himself and Harry. In that moment, Harry could finally appreciate how it must feel to be a constant in Riddle’s orbit; the constant attention was dizzying, and it made him warmer than it should, his fingers itching to move and a tightness growing under his skin. 

“I think we both know them…” Harry paused to glance down at the meat still stuck on his fork, “…intimately.”

Riddle continued to smile, and even leaned forward a little, his fingers circling the stem of his wineglass, “that doesn’t mean,” he said, “that I don’t want to hear you say them; one by one, Harry.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is embarrassingly long and outrageously self-indulgent.

Riddle was more audacious than Harry had surely given him credit for if he wanted him to sit there, in front of his guests, and name every morally reprehensible thing about him. But, then again, if Riddle wanted to hear him say what he was; if it entertained him to have the putrid threads that knitted together to form the rotten core of his soul, laid bare for all to see, then Harry would humour him. “Alright,” Harry said, slowly, keeping his tone low and steady, despite the restlessness that was scratching under his skin, “I’ll start now, shall I?” And although it was grammatically a question, Harry had no intention of doing otherwise, after all, Riddle had brought this fate upon himself. 

“Number one,” Harry said, though, he suspected he wouldn’t be saying many more, “you’re an anthropophagite.” As he spoke, he savoured each syllable of the word, rolling it around his mouth to taste the full extent of its horrific connotations, before he spat it out into the air for everyone to try. 

But Riddle did not appear to look offended by the observation. In fact, he merely smiled, not even glancing at his guests to see if they understood the meaning of such an unutterable word, though Harry would hazard a guess that most had an inkling, if not an _intimate _understanding of the definition. Harry wasn’t able to scan their faces, and read their expressions, for long though, because Riddle was speaking again.  
“Such an impressive vocabulary you have,” Riddle said with just a hint of sarcasm; his fingers tracing down the strong lines of his knife and fork that were now placed each side of his plate, “but do tell me, Harry, does the layman’s term offend you?”__

__“Not at all,” he replied, a little faster than he would have liked, and, anyway, it tasted like a lie. Though, it wasn’t that the definition offended him per se, merely that to speak of such a thing, and to speak of it in a civilised society, where the decorum and dignity of the conversation held as much influence as the words spoken, was… unsettling. Perhaps even demoralising, for was this, not a crime Harry had presupposed was non-existent in their current era of enlightenment?  
“I just thought it might offend your guests,” Harry added, keeping a streak of civility in his tone, even if the rest had descended into a strictly acerbic quality, served with a glare and a side of lemon. _ _

__Riddle laughed, not loudly, nor unattractively, he simply laughed, his head tilting forward, and genuine, rather than curated, smile settled on his mouth, and his hands stopping their tracing for a moment. “Well then, Harry,” he said, looking up again, “we’ll we have to send them away, won’t we?”_ _

__At that, Riddle clicked his tongue. “You heard me,” he said, addressing the rest of the room that Harry had practically forgotten even existed, “why don’t you all retire to the sitting room?” he continued, never taking his eyes off Harry’s. Apparently, the sharpness in his tone was enough to indicate to the others that he was serious as they all got up without question; picking themselves up like sentient ragdolls and wandering out the room with little more than a glance. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say it was the Imperious curse that had wrapped itself around them, but he did know better, and despite the suffocating feeling in this room, the command was not grounded in dark magic, merely charisma._ _

__They all obeyed Riddle because they knew it was in their best interests to do so._ _

__Harry found himself watching the strange parade of people, leaving quite naturally, and chatting to each other as they did so; the same conversations that had been happening before now continued, albeit in slightly different circumstances. But then the door was shutting, and a decided silence came over the room, though it was partnered with a bubbling apprehension just below the surface of Harry’s skin. This unshakeable _suspicion_ that Riddle was about to do something he shouldn’t. _ _

__And he couldn’t have that._ _

__So, with little consideration but much enthusiasm, Harry was standing up. The action was fast enough to push the chair back a couple of feet and make it wobble dangerously, distracting Riddle’s attention long enough for Harry to draw his wand. He held it firm; his fingers wrapped around the hilt, and the wood surely leaving imprints of its grooves in his palm. It wouldn’t matter though; grooves marked into his palms would be the last of his problems if Riddle actually tried something, after all, even maiming the Minister for Magic, without legitimate and irrefutable cause, wouldn’t be a good look._ _

__But, apparently, Harry was worried about nothing, because Riddle didn’t move. In fact, he stayed perfectly still, just watching him, eyebrows raised, and wearing the same gaze that one might direct toward a small, and rather irritating, child.  
“Put it away, Harry,” he said, with an infuriating strain of disinterest running through his tone, one that made Harry grip his wand tighter, and keep it firmly pointed at Riddle’s throat. Riddle rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair; continuing to swallow the last of his wine as though there was nothing odd or even untoward about this interaction. “ _Oh please_ , Harry, you’re only embarrassing yourself.”_ _

__“No,” Harry replied, though he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was replying to, but nor was he going to backing down—even if his arm was beginning to ache—because there was something so offensive stitched into Riddle’s smile and something so slippery in the rest of his demeanour. The way that he sat there, so calmly, just watching as Harry wound himself up on his teasing; his jaw tight and his teeth pressed hard together as though he could crush Riddle’s self-satisfied attitude between them._ _

__Riddle continued to sit still; his eyes giving nothing more than a cursory glance to the tip of Harry’s wand before he was looking back at his face. “Look, Harry,” he said, softly this time, as though he were speaking to a wild animal, spooked by the city sounds, “you can either do something irrevocable and irresponsible, such as murdering me, _or_ , you can do as you’re told and come over here like a good boy.”_ _

__“And why would I do that?” Harry said, keeping his eyes fastened to Riddle’s hands, after all, his wand wasn’t visible and there were many things a man could do many things with his hands—not all of them, savoury occupations. Riddle seemed to guess his point of fascination as he flexed those hands, making the knuckles crack as he looked down and examined his nails for a few seconds, before glancing back up at him again._ _

__Riddle smiled. “Because,” he said, “if you actually thought you could kill me, you would have done it by now.”_ _

__“I _could_ kill you,” Harry said, and— _oh_ —the thought was tempting; it would be so easy too, and the extinguishing of a monster, once revealed, would come with gratitude in the end. Not that Harry would do it for the congratulations and plaudits that he would undoubtedly receive; no, Harry would simply do it to extend the reach of rudimentary justice, and to begin to remove the white film of rot that Riddle had coated everything he touched with. _ _

__Back in reality, though, Riddle continued to maintain the perfect façade of ease; one hand resting on the table, the fingers splayed out almost indecently, and the other slung over the back of his chair in a display of affluent comfort. “Oh, I’m sure you _could_ ,” he said, taking his time to drag out the syllables, and to recite them in an almost mocking tone, “but you _won’t_.” Riddle looked down at the table then, and smiled to himself, “I’ll admit,” he continued, “you have the impulsiveness, but you lack… well…” Riddle said, looking Harry right in the eye with that smug smile, “…you lack the _nerve_ , Harry.”_ _

__Harry clenched his jaw and gripped his wand tighter. From every inch of his features, and even the barest hint of his expression, it was obvious that Riddle was trying to bait him; treating Harry like he was a dog, and he was his master, standing there and squeaking his favourite toy, perpetually teasing him before considering rewarding his reactions. In short, it was petty and frustrating, though, the ease at which Riddle was able to identify his sore spots and indeed utilize them for his own, exploitative, purposes, was as impressive as it was unnerving._ _

__“Fuck you,” he muttered, which was unprofessional and a little childish, but he wasn’t here in a professional capacity, and there was something in Riddle’s attitude that made Harry want to be childish; he wanted to defy him just to see what he would do about it. He wanted to discover whether Riddle was as discreet as everyone said, or whether there was an accessible boiling point, where he became careless, and instead of a scalpel, he employed the use of a sledgehammer._ _

__“What was that, Harry?” Riddle said, even as he motioned for him to sit in the seat beside him; the one that, a few minutes ago, Malfoy had occupied._ _

__Harry ignored him, choosing instead to just glare at the floor and not bother repeating himself. Riddle had heard the first time. Harry _knew_ he’d heard because the flickering was back at the corner of his mouth, tugging an amusement-tinged smile onto his face. Riddle was clearly enjoying reeling him into conversations painted in moralistic undertones, each one shadowed, however unintentionally, with the monstrosities that were congealing on the table. The glazes thickening into a sticky, solidified crusts, and the juices forming small, rancid, pools where surely insects would soon gather. _ _

__It wasn’t a pretty sight to see all that had been so beautiful swell with putrefaction until its superficial varnish cracked and split open and all the rot spilled out; Harry wondered briefly if Riddle’s heart would be the same—pulsing, and purple, and rotten on the inside, but fresh and red and young on the outside. Either way, Harry had no intentions of finding out._ _

__Nor did he have any intentions of sitting in the seat Riddle indicated to him, which he regarded with suspicion; preferring to sit in the one beside it, so that there was a whole chair separating him from Riddle. It was for both of their own safety, really. Otherwise—well—Harry didn’t trust himself around handsome, provocative, Machiavellian men, and Riddle was about as deeply intertwined with both concepts as it was possible to be; with those citric acid eyes and that marzipan mouth that could get him anything he wanted._ _

__So, despite the mild apprehension that continued to seethe in the base of his stomach, Harry lowered his wand and took the seat, a few steps away from Riddle._ _

__He’d scarcely been sitting down a second before Riddle was leaning closer to him, elbows pressing into the tablecloth and creasing it. “Pour me another glass, won’t you?” he said, clinking the glass with the points of his nails, whilst waving it as though Harry was a waiter. It was an action borne from a perception of innate superiority and the burgeoning arrogance that so often accompanied it. The sort of manners acquired by someone who hadn’t been born wealthy, but had procured wealth, nonetheless. Or, perhaps, it was merely another one of Riddle’s constructed façades; each one made with a specific person in mind, and each designed to rile that single individual up._ _

__If that was the case, it was certainly working. Harry could already feel the usual flaring in his chest and the dull ache in his jaw from where he’d been clenching it too tightly. As though it would dampen the feeling of disgust, Harry grabbed at the neck of the nearest bottle, squeezing it as though it were Riddle’s own neck—as though he could leave pink fingertips imprinted there forever—and slammed it down as hard as he dared in front of Riddle._ _

__“Pour it yourself.”_ _

__With his signature, and insufferable, delight, Riddle took the bottle in his own hand, wrapping his fingers around the neck with considerably more class and elegance than Harry had managed, before leaning back again. “So prickly,” he said, the notes of amusement unmistakable in his voice; Harry bristled, trust Riddle to find this all so very entertaining. They both stayed in silence as Riddle began to pour the wine; the liquid, wet, dazzling, and the colour of crushed raspberries sliding from the near-black bottle into the glass that was still so clear. It ran so smooth, gliding almost through the air and hitting the glass with a splashing that for whatever reason made Harry’s breath hitch._ _

__It wasn’t his preferred alcohol but, had this been different circumstances, he might have at least tried it; right now, though, he wouldn’t dare._ _

__“Do you actually like the taste?” Harry asked, keeping just enough ambiguity in the question to see how Riddle’s mind worked—would he think they were talking about the red wine that was the colour of blood, or, the red-stained meat that was suffused with real blood? Why, exactly, he was implicitly asking the latter question, Harry couldn’t explain. Perhaps, he simply wanted to know—to understand—the logic of a monster; as though that would make the next one easier to catch._ _

__Anyway, Riddle would probably enjoy it, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been waiting for someone to ask these questions since he’d first tried sinking his teeth into someone else, after all, it must have been boring not having anyone know. Not having anyone _revile_ you as they should. But maybe, Riddle enjoyed slithering around like a snake, pretending to be something he so obviously wasn’t. _ _

__“So, do you?” Harry prompted when Riddle hadn’t yet spoken a reply._ _

__Riddle just shrugged his shoulder non-committedly, his fingers still weaving their way around the stem of the wineglass, now half-full, and tapping them against the glass. “It’s neither here nor there,” he said eventually._ _

__“Why do you do it then?”_ _

__That was, apparently, the right question as Riddle’s fingers stopped their tapping, and he looked up with a smile. “Oh, Harry,” he said, his tone bordering on condescending, “why does a man do anything, but for the power it gives him.”_ _

__“The power?” Harry found himself echoing uselessly. He’d never measured power like that; to him, it was the sheer somatic prowess of an individual, the physical strength of their body measured in muscle and bone. Or perhaps, at a stretch, power could be defined by the capabilities of someone’s tongue—how silver and slippery it was, and how much vigour each command that rolled off it had. But, at least to Harry, power’s shape had never been drawn around such concepts as hegemony and domination._ _

__“You see, Harry,” Riddle said, “I can already make people do what I want; it’s so easy that it’s lost that…” He paused, tilting his head and twisting his mouth, searching a word that could begin to describe whatever foreign emotion was inside him, “…novelty,” Riddle said eventually, a slight twinge, somewhere between irritation and disappointment hanging heavy in his voice. “After all,” he continued, “with a snap of my fingers and I can get anything I wish for.”_ _

__He looked up at Harry again. “It’s an unstimulating life,” he said, “and I _need_ stimulation, Harry,” he added, his voice dipping lower, the consonants brittle and snagging on the tip of his tongue like wool on barbed wire. It made Harry swallow and look at the table, feeling the faintest wave of heat forming a film just beneath his skin. He didn’t know why his body would do that. Harry had been party to far filthy conversations; all of them filled with sticky mouths and panted words, compared to that, Riddle had neither. But there was still something in his tone, something sultry and ripe with decay, something that got Harry’s heart beating harder than it should. _ _

__“Surely,” Harry started, swallowing down the swelling lump in his throat, “it’s stimulating to…” he paused, the words sticking to his tongue, “… _control_ someone as well?”_ _

__Riddle quirked an eyebrow and his mouth curved into a smile. “In a way,” he said, matter-of-factly, before taking another long drink of his wine; the muscles in his throat shifting as he swallowed. “But haven’t you ever wanted to do something illicit, Harry?” he said with that dangerous glitter back in the very centre of his pupils, and it burned like a match igniting for the first time. “Something so… wrong,” he continued, the edge of his irises catching alight with the flame so that for a second each iris was outlined with red._ _

__“Besides,” Riddle said, sitting back and placing his hand so deliberately on the table; the fingers bent at the knuckle and folded over initially, though Harry watched as they uncurled and the nails began to tap against the tablecloth, “most people really are nothing but meat, and something that pathetic _deserve_ to be eaten.”_ _

__As he spoke those last words, Harry felt a sudden, cold, shiver run the length of his spine and making shudder. Perhaps, it was the ease at which Riddle admitted something monstrous, or perhaps of it was the sinister way that Harry’s stomach flipped; his curiosity piqued simply at the thought of being so callous. Caught in the fascinating cycle that was the way that Riddle’s smile was so human—that revealed he was made of skin and flesh and bone, but still, in the hollow of his chest there wasn’t anything like a soul—merely a vacuity._ _

__This empty expanse where human feelings were supposed to make their bed. The gardens that other people grew, the ones that they watered and nurtured simply did not exist in Riddle. Rather, the land inside him was flat and barren and empty, and whilst other people would have been so horrified by this discovery, Riddle, himself, appeared less than moved. If anything, he was completely at ease, revelling even, in the sheer emptiness that hung inside him, and it was mesmerising to watch._ _

__So, mesmerising that Harry could scarcely bear to drag his eyes away from Riddle and his empty soul. Finally, he managed to by staring at the empty plates of the people who’d left; just got up and walked away with nothing. Their food was left now, to be rediscovered as an archaeological site, with old riverbeds of sauce now run dry, and ancient structures formed from rice and potatoes. There were primitive sacrifices too, the remains of small bones and a person cut into squares, like an offering to some ancient god._ _

__A god that Riddle sought so hard to embody._ _

__And still, the food glistened. The light sliding off the angles and casting colours out across plates as though a sunset had come to settle there. Harry continued to not look at Riddle as he reached out across the table to take an empty glass and the nearest jug of water, which happened to be infused with pomegranate seeds that bobbed like lacquered gems and still whole lumps of ice, clearly being manipulated with magic. Not that Harry was complaining, for once, because right now he needed something clear and cool in his throat. Something that would relieve that pounding of his pulse and the haze that was settling inside his head._ _

__He swallowed down great mouthfuls of the water, tasting the sharp sweetness of the fruit all over his tongue, whilst being faintly aware that Riddle was still watching him. His eyes fixed on the lines of Harry’s throat, marvelling at the movement of the muscles every time he swallowed. But that firm gaze only stoked the heat under his skin, and Harry gulped down another mouthful of water before putting the glass back on the table._ _

__“You know, Riddle,” he said, careful to keep the line of professional as defined and as solid as he could, otherwise the lines of appropriateness would likely begin to blur, and Harry might just forget himself. “I think you’re wrong about what people are.”_ _

__Riddle smiled and tilted his head back, raising his chin up so that Harry was forced to look at his jawline for several, uncomfortable, seconds. “Do you now?” he said, this time lurching dangerously close to shamelessly flirtatious. It was all in the tone, that soft and sensuous sound, practically dripping with evocative notes that made Harry’s pulse beat faster in his neck. “And why is that, Harry?”_ _

__“Because,” Harry said, trying to keep his tone severe enough to match his glare, “people have a value.”_ _

__Riddle’s mouth twitched, and as his lips curved upward again, Harry caught a glimpse of his teeth, “maybe to you,” he said, examining his nails, “but to me—well—I would say that people are useful, but they’re not inherently _valuable_.” The way he pronounced those last words made Harry shiver, it was as though he genuinely saw himself above other people, like they were nothing more than annoying insects, or maybe even inanimate objects that he could position and reposition to his will. _ _

__Riddle actually appeared to believe they were nothing._ _

__“You don’t look convinced, Harry,” he said, draining the last of the wine from his refilled glass and placing it back down onto the table, its sound muffled by the tablecloth. Harry looked at it, watching the last drip of wine slide down the inside of the glass; he glanced back at Riddle. Without even seeing himself, Harry knew he was jutting his jaw and gritting his teeth together, in the same way, it always did when he was faced with any moral conundrum._ _

__“I’m not,” he said coldly._ _

__“I’ll have to convince you then, won’t I?” Riddle said, suddenly moving his chair back, and standing up. Without asking permission, Riddle slowly took the couple of steps forward towards Harry’s chair, the gold of the light spilling down from the ceiling dappling into the molten colour of that suit, and making his skin glow and his eyes fill to the brim with a shade that was somewhere between crimson and merlot. Harry continued to watch as Riddle came to sit in the chair beside him; shifting himself minutely so that he was closer than he had been before. Close enough to make Harry instinctively drop his hand back down to his thigh, his fingers touching at the wand holster that he kept there. Riddle watched, but he didn’t make a comment, which was frankly _more_ unnerving. _ _

__Harry realised a moment too late that his eyes had been tracking steadily over Riddle’s body ever since he moved. Almost greedily, he’d been taking in the tight lines of Riddle’s waist, and the curve of his back as he moved, each action measured, and embodying a liquidity and gracefulness that was rare in a man. Just by looking at him others might have said that Riddle was made of marble and shaped by craftsmen, but that ignored the insidiously organic nature of him; that crawling sensation he induced down the back of Harry’s spine. The one that said Riddle was not crafted, rather he was dragged out of the earth with dead men’s blood already in his veins, and decay just under his skin._ _

__Continuing his silence though, Riddle just reached back and picked up his fork from beside his plate; taking it slow enough for Harry’s thoughts to buzz and a whole list of possibilities to form a maelstrom inside his head. But Riddle didn’t even look at him, he merely took up his cutlery and a reasonably clean bread plate, before serving himself another slice of meat from the platter in the centre of the table. The flecks of gold in the crust of the meat catching the light and painting spatters of the same gold colour across the pale lines of Riddle’s hands._ _

__It was beautiful, but it shouldn’t have been._ _

__After all, those hands had almost certainly done unspeakable things, and yet the insidious thought in the back of Harry’s mind—that stubbornly refused to leave—was how nice it might have been to use those hand for other unspeakable purposes, of a substantially different nature. For there was a dexterity to those hands, one that made Harry want to feel them gripping his wrists, the palms pressed into his shoulders, and the knuckles grazing his jaw; he wanted to feel Riddle’s weight pushing through them and keeping him still. And if it had been anyone else, Harry might have voiced those thoughts, but he certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Riddle’s face._ _

__But if Riddle saw the flicker in Harry’s eyes as he considered all the horrendous possibilities, or, if he caught the sound of his breath catching in his throat before he washed down the lump with another gulp of water, he didn’t mention it. In fact, Riddle was rather preoccupied with carving the red cut of meat into small strips that he arranged into a neat pile. Harry watched; a mixture of intrigue and apprehension swelling in the space between his ribs._ _

__That feeling only continued to grow as Riddle finished and placed the knife down on someone else’s plate with a clatter, and stabbed a square of meat with his fork. With a glance at Harry, he dipped the small pieces of rare meat into a small pool of sauce that he’d poured, and dragged it through, until it was coated in a sticky, red, glaze that made Harry’s fingers twitch and his thoughts race. Then with a final, heavy, glance up at him, Riddle raised the fork to Harry’s mouth.  
“I want you to eat it,” Riddle said, or rather, murmured, for his lips barely moved and the language was so soft and gentle one would think he was coaxing a toddler. Except, of course, there was something provocative swimming between the letters that made Harry squirm in his seat, the flush beneath his skin running a little too hot._ _

__Harry swallowed, his gaze passing from the fork held so delicately in Riddle’s hand, to the meat, and how it dripped red sauce like blood down onto the tablecloth; one drip after another, dribbling down and spreading out, and staining the white with little red circles. Then, he looked at Riddle with his inky eyes and cephalopodic smile.  
“And what if I don’t want to?” he said, cautiously, his hands twisting in his lap, and his breathing not as steady as it should have been. He swallowed again._ _

__“Then I won’t force you,” Riddle murmured, even as he inched the fork closer to him, “but you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what I meant.”_ _

__Harry swallowed again; there was too much truth in that statement to make him comfortable with himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t deny the bubbling curiosity that was spilling through his stomach and alighting every nerve with static. As though to tempt him, Riddle leant forward; the fork still raised so tantalisingly close to Harry’s mouth; so close that he’d only have to reach out his tongue to taste it. And there it was: the insidious thought that made him no better than any of them._ _

__“Go on, Harry” Riddle murmured, setting a lure with this tongue, and a temptation by moving the fork again so that the warm piece of meat stuck to it bumped against Harry’s lips, “there’s nothing wrong with being curious.”_ _

__Their eyes met again, and this time they lingered; fused together like magnets. Riddle’s all at once burning bright and settled dim as though there were entire constellations in his eyes, each in a constant state of death and renewal. It was so unhuman and so fantastically beautiful that it physically hurt to tear his eyes away, but Harry managed to. Instead, he focused on the texture of the meat and the sheen that coated it; this close, he could smell it and practically _taste_ it. _ _

__He continued to glance between the meat and Riddle. Examining how the latter tilted his neck back just slightly, pronouncing the curve, and the strong lines of his throat. Also, from that angle, the exquisite bones that structured his face caught the light; they were so sharp and masculine, that would have subdued any claims of femininity that might have stemmed from the delicacy of his fingers, and the elegance of his demeanour. But Riddle’s face should not have been that interesting, especially not when he was holding the final incarnate of someone in his hands._ _

__But, then again—Harry thought as he swallowed—what harm could eating them do now, anyway? The physical man or woman that this piece of meat used to be a component part of—still was, technically—was long gone. Now, they were just a piece of meat, a mere vessel through which Harry could disprove Riddle’s theories of power, and reassert his own humanity, not to mention his now fragile morality, suspended from nothing more than a string. The person they had been, had moved on, shifted as it were, for a higher purpose than that which they had possessed before._ _

__Harry ate._ _

__With the carefulness of a feral animal being fed by hand for the first time, he took the fork between his teeth and watched how Riddle’s eyes just glittered as he scraped the meat into his mouth. As he chewed, Harry took his time to spread the meat throughout his mouth, to roll it over his tongue and to press it between every one of his teeth, until the flavour, and the texture, and the implications were so infused into him that he’d never get them out. And he never took his eyes off Riddle._ _

__Not even when he bit through the centre and the flavour was dribbling all over his tongue. Like that, the taste was elusive and quite extraordinary, and to anyone else, the flavour would have blended into their assumptions and they would have been none the wiser, and yet, Harry was so _hyperaware_ of every nuance. Every one of his taste buds was tingling as he attempted to comprehend something that was so incomprehensible to the human mind, so _wrong_ that he could scarcely believe it was real. _ _

__Between every note of flavour and every thread of texture, Harry tried to find something hideous, something reflected in the taste that would show this crime for what it was. But there was nothing. Despite the myriad of complications that so surrounded this act, there was nothing in its conception that was marked it out as something awful. Simply, the thing that rested on his tongue, melting in the heat of his mouth, and was slowly being chewed between his teeth, was nothing more than a piece of meat._ _

__As much as it pained Harry to admit it, there was no great moral conspiracy embedded between the fibres of the flesh, instead, it was just soft, melt-in-the-mouth meat, delicately spiced with something unidentifiable, that was then mixed with the sticky sweetness of mulled orange, and the sharpness of pomegranate seeds. That was all that Harry could taste—and the _normalness_ of it was frankly jarring, so was the pleasantness; the horrific fact that he was swallowing without protest and licking his lips, trying to catch more of that spice on his tongue._ _

__His reaction must have, in some way pleased Riddle too, because he was smiling wider than before, and a darkness was growing like a blooming rose in the centre of his irises. “Can you taste it?” he said quietly, as he lowered the fork until it hit the side of the plate with a clink. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Riddle’s fingers held it still, whilst the tip of his nail tapped against the metal._ _

__Harry swallowed hard, struggling to ignore the warm, sweetened aftertaste that filled his mouth, oozing into the grooves of his tongue and the furrows and ridges that formed between his teeth. “Taste what?” he said, not quite meeting Riddle’s eyes._ _

__This time, Riddle didn’t smile, and his fingers stopped their incessant tapping so that the room fell silent, and the only sound that Harry could hear at all was the steady pounding of his own heart as it beat against his rib cage. He wondered whether Riddle could hear it, whether it made his own pulse rise and his mouth water; he wondered whether he made Riddle hungry.  
“Oh, Harry,” Riddle murmured, his eyes focusing in on Harry’s own as though he was reaching into his irises and pulling at the threads of green until the whole thing would unspool in great coils of colour. “Can you taste the power you have over them,” he murmured, “can you feel it burning on the back of your throat?”_ _

__“Yes,” Harry breathed; in part, because that was what Riddle wanted to hear, but also in part, because there _was_ a sort of diabolical power play in this. Treating real people as though they were nothing more than meat for pleasurable consumption—not even starvation—held a sort of control over them that Harry had never imagined even existed, but was now thrumming through his veins at a rapid pace and making his head spin. _ _

__It was such a heady feeling that Harry preferred not to think about why, after the initial experimentation, he continued to let Riddle feed him small chunks of meat placed straight onto his tongue. He preferred not to think about why his stomach bloomed with heat and why he was so unexpectedly _aware_ of his own physicality, and indeed of Riddle’s. He didn’t like to think about it, but it was also undeniable. Especially, when his collar was scratching at his throat and the sleeves of his shirt were so rough on his wrists, and his heart was emitting a slow, heavy, thumping that sounded like a drum inside his head. _ _

__Then there was the flush; Harry could feel the heat of it trickling down his neck and spreading out in pink speckles over his shoulders, and still, Riddle looked at him like he was the most interesting thing in the world. For far too long, his eyes had been outlining Harry’s mouth and watching, in almost raptured fascination, every flicker of his tongue and every glint of his teeth. In fact, Riddle seemed to notice every movement, no matter how insubstantial, and each one seemed to encourage him further; they made his fingers bolder and his eyes more intense—something in them, burning at the very core._ _

__There were other changes too. An immense calmness came over the room, spreading itself out in deep, undulating waves that swelled and retreated almost physically; repeating and repeating until Harry’s skin was tingling from the touch, and he could see the signs of relaxation beginning to infuse themselves into Riddle’s corporeality. It started in his shoulders, and how he rolled them back as he shifting in his seat; the slow swirls of his magic suggesting that Riddle was unwinding himself from whatever tight mask he usually wore, and letting himself peel back his skin, and letting the monster underneath breathe._ _

__It would have been sweet on anyone else, but on Riddle it just looked sick. Though, of course, in his case it did create a slight openness about him now that hadn’t been there before—a vulnerability even—and maybe Harry should have taken his moment. Maybe, he should have grabbed that fork and turned it on Riddle, stabbing it through his ribs hard enough to skewer his heart, perhaps he should have cut it out of his chest and taken a bite; smiling at Riddle’s cold, dead, eyes as he did so._ _

__But Harry didn’t do any of that._ _

__Rather, he stayed so perfectly still, and let Riddle’s eyes wander away from his mouth to examine the line of his jaw, and the shape of his throat, and the hollows in the base of his neck. With his spare hand, Riddle reached forward and began to work his fingers into the contours of Harry’s tie, pulling gently at the material until he had worked it loose enough to get the tips of his fingers into the gaps. Without breaking his gaze once, Riddle undid the rest of the tie, sliding it apart and pulling it from around Harry’s neck with a satisfying slither; then, his fingers began to explore his collar, slipping beneath the fabric and working on the button. And still, he watched Harry, as though he wanted to see _every_ micro-expression._ _

__Harry didn’t give him the satisfaction._ _

__Rather, he kept his face as blank as he could—the same sort of expression that he used during interviews and, to a lesser extent, interrogations—though that only appeared to encourage Riddle further. His hand becoming bolder as he undid the topmost button of Harry’s shirt and unwrapped the edges of his shirt from his skin so that he could slide the very tips of his fingers over the hollows of Harry’s throat. Harry swallowed, hating himself a little for indulging it and even more for _liking_ it. _ _

__But every time he thought to protest, Riddle just shushed him, all slow and susurrant, and raised another scrap to his mouth; his fingers creeping further and further down the fork, until, the tips were close enough to scrape about the crest of Harry’s lips, and Harry couldn’t help but want to reach out his tongue and taste the flavour of Riddle’s fingers. A small part of him wanted to get them in his mouth and bite hard enough for Riddle to understand what it must be like to be chewed between someone else’s teeth._ _

__But, however much, Harry wanted to do those things, something inside him refused to. Instead that thing inside of him demanded that he merely invert Riddle’s desires; prove to him that there was some moral significance in eating someone else and that no matter how hard he tried, Harry would no longer be quite himself after committing such a monstrous act._ _

__At least, that was the plan._ _

__Now though, with every passing second that plan seemed to get hazier inside Harry’s head; blurring out between the folds of his brain, until every thought was nothing more than a fuzzy mess inside his skull, so thick with unnameable sensations that Harry was practically choking on it. Harry was so caught up in the feelings of it—both physical and psychological—that he felt, rather than saw, Riddle’s hand on his thigh. But as soon as the realisation struck him, he didn’t look at it, as though, if he couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist. In his ignorance, he could pretend it didn’t exist. He could pretend that this was all perfectly ordinary, and he might just be able to make himself believe it, at least for a while. Nevertheless, the fact remained that Riddle’s hand was a definite presence against him, and the pressing of his fingers into the soft skin was so very deliberate._ _

__It was shockingly warm too, and such a weight despite the fact Riddle wasn’t leaning into him; though as much as Harry wished it was, the touch wasn’t unpleasant, if anything, it was appallingly lovely. It was hardly a secret that he hadn’t exactly had time for relationships, not with his rapid ascension through the Auror ranks—there was just no time to feel the unprofessional touch of someone else, let alone experience all the terrible thoughts that were now running through his head._ _

__To Harry’s disappointment though, Riddle removed his hand far too soon. Although, perhaps removed was too strong a word, for it was merely redirected in its intentions; sliding up over his hip and along the base of his ribs, until it reached the curve of his shoulder, as though Riddle was exploring all the parts of him from which meat could be stripped. But Riddle’s fingers were hot on his neck, the pads pressing into the pulse and the palm splayed out over the crest; with his thumb, Riddle turned Harry’s head and kept him still, and they were just so close together. Like this, Harry could see all the inhuman things about Riddle, all those _unnaturally_ perfect features that made him a monster in a man’s skin. _ _

__He was also faintly aware of how Riddle’s fingers were tracing up his throat; the nails scraping lightly over the skin and leaving behind a trail of prickles in their wake like a bramble stem had grown beneath the surface of his skin. So too was Harry aware of just how soft the pads of Riddle’s fingers were, and just how warm they felt against his own coldness, and he’d be lying if he said that he tried to push them away. If anything, he leaned into the touch. Harry leaned in close enough to Riddle skin that he could smell the trace-scent of Riddle’s cologne, and it too was sharp and masculine, and _intoxicating_. Undertones of something thick and hazy, that were layered up with notes of earthiness and a tinge of sweetness that reminded Harry, quite distinctly, of summer’s sticky-sweet rot. The sort of smell one could taste on the back of their throat, and that was teetering on the edge between ripe and putrescent. _ _

__And all Harry could do was breathe it in._ _

__Taking long, deep, breaths that opened up every valve in his body and got his pulse just throbbing in the side of his neck, Harry continued to watch Riddle’s eyes, and continued to chew the meat that was offered on the end of the fork. As he ate, he couldn’t help but notice the soft parting of Riddle’s lips and the way that his eyes lingered on every part they shouldn’t; it was enough to give Harry notice of what was about to happen, after all, he was an Auror, and it was his job to notice these things._ _

__But that didn’t mean he stopped it._ _

__Rather, Harry found himself staying so perfectly still and ignoring every warning siren that was blaring inside his head and blurring with the rapid beating of his heart. He did nothing when he swallowed down the last of the meat, and Riddle’s hand reached up to cup his jaw—the thumb pressing into the soft skin of his chin—and his eyes still smouldering like yesterday’s coal. Instead, of doing something, Harry felt his whole world slow down until the air was thick and the atmosphere was lethargic, and the edges of his vision were blending with the darkness of the room and the only thing that mattered was the pounding of his pulse and the warmth of Riddle’s fingers._ _

__So, despite himself, Harry didn’t stop Riddle from kissing him, nor did he stop himself leaning closer; pressing himself into Riddle’s hands and taking exactly what was offered. And Riddle’s mouth didn’t disappoint, for, despite the taste of decay, amplified by the bitterness of the wine still coating the inside of Riddle’s mouth, his lips were soft and warm, and his demeanour was coaxing and assuasive—never trying to take, but always inducing Harry to give him that little bit more. Harry was sure he could have kissed Riddle all day if he’d let him. Even, perhaps especially, when Riddle’s fingers began to press hard into his neck, his nails surely leaving little crescent moons lined with red as he pushed into the skin. He began to kiss harder too, pulling Harry closer to him, even as his mouth eased Harry’s own open and his tongue was almost too persuasive, pulling out secret wants from between Harry’s teeth like a magician._ _

__But it was so _wrong_. _ _

__And Harry was the one to drag himself away, both physically and psychologically, from that hypnotic blackhole that constituted Riddle’s soul; gasping for air, and for a clarity that Riddle’s physicality would never, and indeed could never, provide him with._ _

__Despite himself, Harry’s face was hot, and his heart was thumping, and the taste of Riddle tongue was coalescing with the lingering flavour of another human being that was still coating the inside of his mouth, and he felt nothing short of a hot mess. In contrast, Riddle was calm and collected. Still so composed as he leaned back in his chair and continued to watch Harry with those hungry eyes and that starving mouth which was curved into his usual smile. One that made Harry’s stomach sick with something that felt horrifically like want._ _

__Like that, Riddle looked human again, he looked _ordinary_ , even if there was nothing normal under his skin at all. Harry forced himself to keep looking at the table; to keep staring at the white cloth stained red with a sauce the colour of blood, and to keep hearing the beating of his heart, and that inherent feeling of _wrongness_ in his own body. Harry should have been feeling different, he _should_ have been changed, and yet…_ _

__He felt so _normal_. _ _

__And that too was wrong._ _

__Riddle interrupted those thoughts. “They’ll be missing us,” he said, beginning to stand up from his chair; and taking a moment to sweep a hand back through his hair, and repositioning it into something decent, as though he hadn’t been doing anything _inappropriate_ just seconds earlier. Once he was standing, Riddle paused for a moment and straightened his tie again, and pulling at the hem of his jacket, adjusting it slightly so that it better-emphasised everything that was so handsome about him. _ _

__But Harry tried not to look at what must have been the face of the devil and stayed with his hands pressed flat against the table and his tongue stuck in his throat. There was such a humming in his head; the loud static of morality expressing its profound disapproval, he wondered briefly if Riddle had the same problem or whether he’d stamped out that insidious little voice. And it was stupid that, even as Harry stood in panicked contemplation as to what he had done, and indeed what he had _liked_ doing, he _still_ thought of Riddle. _ _

__His thoughts were still plagued with that sureness of his opinions, and the gentleness of his fingers, and the taste of his lips. Of course, Harry would like to believe it was the magnetic intimacy that had compelled him into taking food from Riddle’s hands and swallowing down _human_ meat, as if it was nothing more than a slice of pork from the supermarket. But that argument was fuzzy in his head and even weaker on his tongue; it sounded like a lie because it was one. _ _

__He had eaten another person._ _

__And he had _liked_ it. _ _

__Even as Harry was swallowing hard and staring at the plate of meat still sitting, and coagulating on the table, Riddle lingered by the door, his hand pressed into the wooden frame, looking twice as pale against the almost black of the wood. “If you don’t object, Harry,” Riddle said, all nonchalant, and soft and so low that Harry’s heart jumped again, and he clenched his hands harder against the table, “I’d like to expand your culinary horizons further.”_ _

__“And if I do?” Harry said, through gritted teeth._ _

__Riddle smiled, “then I won’t force you,” he said, “but you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what you’re missing.” With that, he left, the door opening and closing before Harry had time to form a reply—not that there was one hanging on his tongue—and he was left alone; his hands braced against the tablecloth, and his heart thrumming with a horrible humanity, and, in his heart finally realising what it meant to be a monster dressed as a man._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there's something slightly wrong about this, but I'll fix it tomorrow.


End file.
